X5418: John Watson
by TheShadierTwin
Summary: One of the X5 Transgenics didn't just make it out of Manticore before the Pulse - he made it right out of the country.   Originally written for a prompt on sherlockbbc-fic.  Now with slash.
1. Transgenic

Disclaimer: I am not Gattis, Moffatt, or Cameron.

* * *

The man tied to the chair in the warehouse struggled to keep calm. He needed to keep his head, stay level, because otherwise? There was no guarantee that the man in front of him would leave here alive.

Considering that the man was the brother of his new friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, he was quite sure that that particular situation should be avoided at all costs.

"If I wasn't absolutely certain that you mean no harm to my brother, Dr. Watson, you would be dead already."

John considered bluffing, blustering, asking what the hell he's talking about, but the man in front of him is no fool, and will get to the point fairly soon. There is a sinking feeling in John's stomach that he knows exactly what the point is.

"I will, however, need to know what series you are, what, exactly, you are doing in this country, and how you got in without our spies noticing."

_Shit_, thought John. _Not now. Not after all these years. Not after all the lives I saved for this country. Not after this damn limp._

"Come now - I'm speaking to you first as a courtesy. It isn't as though I can't simply speak to Manticore and-"

"You can't," John interrupted. "Please. Not now. Not after- My shoulder, and the limp, and- Please don't let them know I've survived."

Mycroft considered him for a long moment, understanding swiftly crossing his face. "You're an X5. One of the ones that escaped their facility all those years ago. How did we never realize that you were here?"

John shrugged. "Mum and Dad- that is, Mr. and Mrs. Watson adopted me and brought me back here before the Pulse. Even back then I didn't like to fight much. When I joined up it was as a doctor. Take your pick. I was always defective." John trailed off with another shrug.

Sherlock's brother stared for a moment more.

"I'm not planning anything against Sherlock, you have to believe me - well, except maybe figuring out why he keeps using up the milk." He laughed lightly, self-deprecatingly. "Do you think watching me start to seize up would make him more or less likely to keep tryptophan in the flat?"

Mycroft gave a significant look to one of his associates, and the zip-ties securing John to the chair disappeared. John chafed the marks on his wrists.

"I do apologise, Dr. Watson-"

"It's fine. I'll just tell Sherlock we were having kinky sex," John said with that same wry, self-deprecating grin. "I've got a sister. I know my way around pranking one's siblings." The smile faded. "Will you tell him?"

"Did you wish me to?"

"I- I don't know. I don't particularly want to become an experiment. I definitely don't want him to become a target. I'll trust your judgement."

One considering pause.

"He'll appreciate it better if he has to deduce it for himself. Well! I'm glad we've got this unpleasantness out of the way, Doctor. Thank you for your time; the car will take you anywhere you'd like to go."

"Home," John said decidedly. "Thanks."

* * *

Max looked at the website the British man had given her. He'd told her that someone she thought she'd lost had left a message there for her, and that a certain lady would let her in. The password, of course. _thebluelady_ let her in.

There was a video there. "Hi, Max," the man in the video said. She knew him. He was tan, and his hair was cut military style, but he was smiling and relaxed, and calling her by name, not number. He'd picked up a British accent somewhere. "Hi, everybody. I've missed you.

"First thing's first - Manticore cannot track this website. Not only is the UK out of their jurisdiction, but the people who set it up made it unbelievably secure. We're working on finding a way to get you guys out of the States if you want it; Britain is offering asylum for most of you, on very few conditions. And Max - if you want, we can help Mr. Eyes Only to broadcast outside of Seattle.

"You won't believe what I've been up to this year..."


	2. Milk

John remembered this feeling. This tightening of his skin, the way his muscles began, subtly, to contract. He had left it too long, pushed himself too hard and he needed a dose.

And then Sherlock had gone and said those four terrible words: "We're out of milk."

Almost as if it were a trigger, John's hand began to shake.

"John?"

Through sheer force of will, John got his hand under control. "I'm fine, Sherlock," he said, with a smile that hopefully looked reassuring. "I'll just ask if Mrs. Hudson has any."

"I used hers, as well." Sherlock looked at John now, the way he looked at evidence. His full attention was on his flatmate. "What's wrong?"

"Does, does she know you took it?"

"I needed it. Why do _you_ need it?"

"Fine, well." Another tremor, suppressed. "I guess I'll go get some from the store, then."

"You'll do no such thing," said Sherlock, putting on his coat and scarf. "You look dreadful. Have a lie-in, I'll get it." And with that, he was gone.

* * *

John didn't remember making his way to the bathroom, but he must have done, because the next thing he knew, he was on the floor of it, convulsing, with Sherlock standing over him in horrified fascination. "C-call Mycroft," John forced out, before the world went fuzzy again.

* * *

The next time he came to, he was in his bed, with a bandage on his forehead - he must have hurt it when he started to seize. There were voices speaking lowly in the living room.

He sat up carefully; they'd changed his clothes while he was out, put him into clean pyjamas, and he threw on an extra sweater to keep off the chill. He shuffled out into the hall, trying not to put too much stress on his leg, which was acting up again.

Mycroft was sitting primly on their wingback chair, cup and saucer in hand, watching Sherlock. Sherlock was slouched over an official looking dossier, reading intently. Both turned their attention to John when he walked in the room.

"X5-418," Sherlock said, and John stiffened. "You broke out when the original twelve did, you took your dead twin's name-"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly. "Don't."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, and then looked at John, really looked at him. "I didn't mean it like that. I know you're John. But I was just- I had to know if I was right."

"I understand." And John _did_ understand. Of course. Sherlock was almost always right, and he wanted to prove it. It was the cabbie all over again. He just forgot, sometimes, that there were other people involved. John looked at Mycroft. "I suppose I'll have to pack my things, then."

"What?" Sherlock said. "Why? Mycroft didn't say he was taking you away somewhere - and you obviously don't want to go."

"Well, I'm... you can't really want to harbour a fugitive, can you? A defective super-soldier?"

"No," Sherlock said seriously. "But I don't want to lose a- a friend, either."

John relaxed a little bit. "Alright," he said. "Good."

"Good," echoed Sherlock.

A quiet clatter of china returned their attention to Mycroft. "May I assume you've finished with that, Sherlock?" he said, indicating the dossier on Manticore. "Only I've other things to do today."

"Alright," Sherlock said, returning the papers. "But I reserve the right to break into your office for that if I need it again."

"I'll make a spare copy," Mycroft promised. "Oh, and Dr. Watson? My people inform me that Manticore has been developing an experimental treatment for your series' seratonin deficiency problems. I'll keep you updated." John nodded, and Mycroft left.

They sat in silence for a moment. "Any questions?" John asked the silence.

"None that you can answer," Sherlock said. He stood up. "I'm going out for a bit. You stay here."

"Alright," John said.

"I mean it. You- you worried me."

"_Alright_, Sherlock," said John, a tiny grin appearing on his face. "I'll stay in the flat and I won't let anybody in but you."

"You can let Mrs. Hudson in, too. Right," he said, pulling on his coat again. "I'll be back in a little while."

"Right," said John. He made his way over to the kitchen, intending to make a snack of some kind.

Inside the fridge, next to the severed head, was a pound of sliced turkey, and three jugs of milk. John simply shook his head, and smiled.


	3. Heat

John's dreams are always of battle, when he dreams at all. Usually the dreams are of heat and sand, but sometimes he dreams of a larger world, of a gun far too large for his own small hands, and of grinning to one side at a girl he called sister.

He never expected to see her again in his waking hours. Not after he'd escaped Manticore; not after he'd left the country; and _certainly_ not after the Pulse.

And yet, here she was.

Sherlock glanced boredly at the view from the air traffic control tower at Mycroft's private airstrip. "She's had an unpleasant flight. And apparently, Mycroft has lost her luggage."

"How do you know she had any to begin with?" John asked, silly smile not leaving his face.

"Well, she's clearly agitated, but more the way she's dressed. Those are nice clothes. They are likely, therefore, not to be her _only_ clothes. And yet no one is making a move to bring her a suitcase. I would have thought…"

John's awareness of the conversation drifted to the back of his mind as a scent came to his attention, low and musky-sweet, like one of those old gin and tonics Dad used to drink on Fridays, when Mum put the Bing Crosby record on to play. But this was rougher than the slow dancing he'd caught them at from time to time – this jungle scent carried with it memories of a deep, deep need and sweaty moaning, of hands kneading-

"John?" said Sherlock, touching the X5's shoulder. John stiffened and closed his eyes, bringing himself under control. "Is it the serotonin?"

"No," John said. "There's this… this _scent_…"

Sherlock frowned. "Tell me."

"It's… god, I don't know. It's like nothing I ever smelled before, and it's making me want to… fuck!"

Sherlock blinked.

"No- well, yeah, it's making me want to have sex with whoever's putting that scent out." John put his hands over his eyes. "I don't know what's happening to me."

Sherlock made a soft sound of understanding. "She's in _heat,_" he said.

John looked at him in surprise.

"It was in the files. Due to your felinoid DNA, female X5s go into heat three times a year, experiencing an intense sexual desire. There was a footnote that any other X5 units would likely be out of commission for the duration. I should have realized why."

The head-scent was drawing nearer – John shuddered. It was his _sister_ – he _never_ wanted to- but now he _desperately_ wanted to-

"It only lasts approximately ten to fourteen hours," Sherlock said. "If you wish me to give you some privacy-"

"God, no, Sherlock!" John said. "It would be like you having sex with Mycroft! She's my sister!"

Sherlock nodded, and picked up his phone and dialled. "Mycroft. She's in heat. It's affecting John." A pause. "The second one. Good." He slipped the phone back into his pocket. "She'll come around to the flat once it's passed and she's had the chance to sleep and shower."

John nodded, and started to relax as the scent faded. Then, he tensed again. "Oh, no."

"It hasn't stopped?"

John shook his head, trying to clear it as much as he could. It wasn't quite so bad as before – but still… "Ten to fourteen hours?" he asked. He could last that long. As long as Sherlock didn't-

Sherlock took off his jacket and his shirt, kneeling down carefully in front of John. "Yes," he said.


	4. Barcode

John's hands were moving, constantly moving. He was rubbing them on his jeans; he was fiddling with the tea, with the sugar, with the spoons; he was tapping his fingers to some nervous tempo he didn't know the tune of. His eyes remained fixed on his hands.

He was clearly agitated about what they'd done yesterday, Sherlock knew.

Sherlock had assured him that there was no reason to be. He'd quoted his friend – _it's all fine_ – earning a twitchy smile, and he'd assured John that he hadn't been hurt, and he'd allowed him to check. But it seemed he hadn't been thorough enough in waylaying his doctor's concern.

He stood up, and John's hands stilled.

John remained standing, looking down at his hands. There was a red patch at the back of his neck, right below the hairline. Sherlock had at first assumed that it was a birthmark – of course now that he knew what John was, he knew it was a scar of some kind. But where had it come from?

_Look at the facts!_

The scar was on the back of his neck. Difficult to perform surgery on one's self, especially there, especially the kind that would leave such a small and unobtrusive scar; someone had done it for him. Not his sister or his parents, unless his father… but no, John had said his father was a businessman by trade, and his mother had been a secretary before Harry was born. So someone else had removed John's tattoo. One of his fellows at St. Barts, perhaps? Seemed likely, judging by the scar – not entirely perfect, but close enough that it could have been done by someone who was being trained as a plastic surgeon. It had been done shortly after John had made his decision to join the military, but before he enlisted. The person had undoubtedly been told that the tattoo was a mistake – which was true, but not on John's part – and probably that it had been obtained while drunk. In reality, of course, John had simply been ensuring that Manticore would not find him while he was protecting his adoptive country, but that was irrelevant to the motivations of the surgeon. Why had he agreed? Obviously not for money, John wasn't particularly well off and neither were his parents, after the Pulse. A friend, then, a close friend, but not close enough that he – or she, it could have been a woman – would expect to know when he'd gotten it. A fellow student, a short-term yet close friend… a lover?

"Sherlock?" said John.

Sherlock idly noticed that he was stroking the scar with his thumb.

"Sorry. I merely-" Sherlock cleared his throat; his voice had been oddly hoarse. "You puzzle me exceedingly, John. Every time I think I know you, you give me a new mystery."

John said nothing, and Sherlock reluctantly backed away.

"If you can't bear to stay here anymore, I'll understand, and Mycroft will help you find somewhere else to live. I… do apologize for taking advantage of you yesterday," Sherlock said.

John turned around, eyes wide with surprise. "Of _me?_" he said.

_Ah. I have missed something._

"Sherlock, I couldn't stop myself! I could have seriously hurt you! You don't even like sex!"

"Who told you that?"

"You did," said John, confusedly. "You said you considered yourself married to your work. Remember?"

"Oh. Well, _relationships_," Sherlock said with a dismissive gesture. "But that was just sex. And you didn't hurt me, John. In fact, I rather enjoyed myself. And so did you."

"Yes," said John. "Probably more than I should have."

"I'd really like you to stay, John. If you feel you can't, I'd still like to work with you." Sherlock pursed his lips. "If you liked it, and I liked it, then why are you still so angry about it?"

"Because I could have seriously hurt you if you'd fought me," John said. "And I couldn't have stopped myself if you'd said no."

_But I said yes_, Sherlock thought. _I said yes, and I'd say yes again, as often as you needed. Any time you wanted._ But Sherlock didn't say anything else on the subject, because he didn't understand John's objections, and he didn't understand his own desire to overcome them.

John sighed. "You're my friend, Sherlock. I don't want to leave."

"Good," said Sherlock. "That's settled, then. Now, to dinner with your sister, and then we'll see if there's anything at all of interest to do."


	5. Pool

With many thanks to mumbling_sage for helping me find the dialogue for that last bit. SPOILERS if you haven't seen the series yet. (Which, if you haven't, why on earth not?)

* * *

"This is a turn up," said John, hands hidden in the pockets of his army green parka. "Isn't it, Sherlock?"

Inwardly, he cursed himself. He was an X5. He was X5-fucking-418, and he'd gotten himself abducted no less than three times now by _Normals_. Pathetic. Defective. _Pathetic_.

"Bet you never saw this coming. After all, who'd expect a defective, gimpy super-soldier of criminal activity? It's not like I had a motive, is it?"

And Sherlock was believing this tripe. Believing that John was somehow smart enough to fool both Sherlock and Mycroft, to 'sneak in my people, right under your noses, yeah, and I got your brother to do it, too,' or that he'd ever, ever hurt Sherlock again, or that-

"Stop it."

The words in John's ear stopped. For a moment, the only thing John could hear was his own heartbeat.

"John isn't your puppet. He doesn't even belong in this; just stop."

'Oh, go on, then, Johnny,' giggled the voice in his ear. 'Show him the prize inside. Annnd repeat after me.'

"Stop, you say?" said John, reluctantly opening his parka. "I could stop. I could stop John Watson. Stop his heart."

"I brought the plans! This is what it's all been about, hasn't it?"

"Oh, those," said John, fighting off a sick feeling. "Boring. I could have got those anywhere. This was never about those plans, Sherlock. It was always about _my _plans." He swallowed. "How well do you think killing John Watson would fit with my plans?"

"You bastard."

"I could use a lethal injection, something that wouldn't damage... the corpse... dis... dissect him at my leisure..."

"Leave him alone - it's me you want! I'm the one who's been tracking you down."

"So you have," said the same voice, this time coming from behind John. "And I must say, I'm impressed, Sherlock." John didn't turn around. For one thing, he didn't need to, to know the way the evil little man was smiling at Sherlock. For another, he didn't want to risk getting shot if he could avoid it. "Oh, not by your little display just now, but up until Johnny showed up... What, are you surprised it's me? Couldn't deduce me properly with your pet distracting you? Jim Moriarty - from the Hospital. You know, maybe I _should_ kill your soldier." Unwelcome hands wrapped around his shoulders. Two fingers pressed against the soft flesh under John's chin. "Take him out of the picture. Bring your game back up." John stared straight ahead, and Sherlock stared at John. The little man sighed. "I thought you might be that way. People _do_ get so emotional about their pets."

"Are you alright?" said Sherlock.

"You can speak, John-Boy."

John nodded curtly.

"Oh, you two are so... Boring." He sighed dramatically, then giggled. "I suppose I should have pegged you for a sentimentalist, Sherlock. After all, you picked _here_. The pool where poor little Carl died. _Nice_ touch."

"I suppose you plan to kill me, too?" said Sherlock. John continued to stand perfectly still, eyes straight ahead.

"Oh, no. Well, yes, I'm going to kill you, but I've been saving that for a _special_ occasion. No." Moriarty walked towards Sherlock, letting go of John. "No. I'm here to tell you to _back off_. Back off of my businesses, back off of my people - this game we're playing, it's fun, but it's bad for the economy, you know."

"And if I don't?" said Sherlock.

"Then I'll still kill you. Eventually. But first I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

John stared straight ahead.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one," said Sherlock.

John stared straight ahead.

"Now we both know that's not true."

John moved as Moriarty backed away into his range, grabbing him in a choke-hold and pulling him against his chest. "Sherlock, run!" he said.

Sherlock didn't move, frozen, as Moriarty started to laugh. "Showed your hand a bit, there, soldier." Red laser-lights appeared on Sherlock's forehead, and John's heart stuttered in his chest. "I read your files, you know. They used wolf DNA to make you. Did you know that? You're part wolf and part human, and that makes you a dog. Good dogs do as they're told. If you don't _release_, doggy, I'll have him shot."

_And then I'll break your neck,_ thought John. _And then your snipers will shoot the bomb I'm wearing, and we'll all be dead. It's an option. But Sherlock..._

As quickly as he'd been caught, Moriarty slipped from John's slackening grip.

"Westwood," he said, straightening his suit jacket.

As quickly as John had taken his attention, Sherlock regained it.

John forced his own attention back to

the task of staying upright. He thanked god that he'd managed to take his most recent dose of Tryptophan before he'd been taken. But his shoulder was hurting, his leg was hurting, and he was still dizzy from whatever they'd drugged him with to put him in the vest and earpiece. His adrenalin was the only thing keeping him standing, and it was starting to wear off.

The door closed behind Moriarty; Sherlock was in front of him, working the vest off. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Sherlock!"

And then that _weight_ was off him, and John stumbled dizzily to the wall, hoping it'd keep him upright a little better than he could on his own - Sherlock's frenzied pacing was hardly helping. And was that _his_ gun? He closed his eyes and focused on the heartbeats to try and still the room, making a joke to try and quiet Sherlock's. He could hear his own... there was Sherlock's... and above them...

"Sherlock?" John pushed himself to his feet; the world still spun, but Sherlock caught him before it went sideways. "The snipers 're still-"

A red dot appeared on John's chest. Sherlock's heartbeat ratcheted back up as the pool doors clanged open. "Sorry, Boys!" Moriarty sing-songed. "I'm so _changeable!_ It's a weakness of mine, but to be fair... _it's my only weakness!_" John felt a growl grow deep in his chest. "I'm sorry, but you can't be allowed to continue, you just _can't_. I'd try to convince you," said Moriarty, "but everything I could say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock met John's eyes. In one epiphinal moment, they both knew _everything_.

"Probably my answer has already crossed yours," said Sherlock, steadying John's gun as the transgenic tensed in on himself, preparing to spring.


	6. Scent

Un-tensing, thought John, was a lot harder than doing it the right way around.

He hadn't started until Moriarty had left again, and Sherlock's heartbeat stabilised. By then the drug coursing its way through John's system was starting to wear off, although it was far from gone. The adrenaline from his planned course of action added to the dizziness, and he had to force himself to keep his head level. He breathed deep, willing his muscles to relax, let go...

"Amazing," said Sherlock. "I can literally see which muscle groups you are releasing tension from as you do it."

"That's nice, Sherlock," said John, still extremely strained. "Mind if I continue until I'm not about to pounce on somebody?"

"Oh, by all means," he responded. A moment later, he frowned. "Your hands are shaking."

"Probably just adrenaline."

"Are you sure?"

Well, no. John wasn't sure. He still didn't know what Moriarty had drugged him with. But it didn't feel like he was having a seizure. "If I'm still shaking in a few minutes, then we can worry." He closed his eyes for a bit, hoping to calm himself that way, but the smell of the chlorine and his own sweat just made him nauseous. "I should be alright to move soon enough."

Sherlock sat down beside him. The scent of the other man made it easier, somehow.

What seemed like hours but was likely only minutes later, John opened his eyes again. Sherlock was watching him, not quite warily.

"Better?"

"Yeah, a bit. You okay?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock spent a moment silent, then put his hand under John's arm, helping him to his feet. "Alright?" he asked. John nodded, although his leg gave out when he tried to put weight on it. Sherlock didn't let him fall.

They walked out together; Sherlock's arm lent John as much strength as Sherlock's scent.


	7. Adler

It was mad. Ridiculous. John should not have been jealous of Irene Adler.

Yes, she was beautiful, confident, poised, clearly dangerous... everything Manticore had wanted him to be, without the detriment of seizures or post-traumatic stress. And she clearly wanted Sherlock, and he was clearly responding to her desires. John could tell even without using his nose.

But he and Sherlock didn't have a relationship, not that kind. Sherlock didn't _do_ relationships, and rarely ever did sex, apparently. Mycroft seemed to think that the time with John had been Sherlock's first time, although Sherlock assured him that it hadn't been. Regardless, John didn't have any claim to Sherlock. He didn't have any right to ask Sherlock to stay away from Irene.

Still, as he watched Irene make eyes at Sherlock and Sherlock stare intriguedly back, John couldn't help but look at her and think, _Interloper._


	8. HOUND

"If you can imagine it, somebody's probably doing it."

Those words constantly echoed through John's head as he walked alone through the Baskerville facility. He could imagine quite a lot – had lived through quite a lot, as a child. He checked for exits, and for places that could be made exits. There were remarkably few of the latter. Christ, the place made his skin crawl – not to mention the fiendish dog they were looking for.

He blinked heavily as he re-entered the lab, getting a face full of light. An alarm began to blare. He swiped his pass to get out, thinking he'd try elsewhere.

Access Denied.

He tried again.

Access Denied.

A third try yielded the same result, just before the sound and lights went dead. And then John heard something breathing. Someone? Something? A low growl sounded, and faintly, behind it, something like a footstep. Lydecker, his mind supplied, and he was sure of it. So Lydecker was here, then, and he had his hand on the hound's leash. Christ. Perhaps if he hid, if he controlled his breathing, if he went very still-

His phone rang. Just once, but he knew his position was lost.

"Sherlock," he whispered rapidly. "He's here."

"The hound?"

"Yes. And Lydecker. He hasn't seen me, but he knows I'm here."

"What? Who-"

"I'll fight him off, buy you time. You get to Mycroft, tell him who's got me-"

"John-"

"This is worse than we thought, if Lydecker is controlling the hound-"

The lights came up, and John sprang out of the cage he was hiding in, flashlight raised to use as a bludgeon-

Nobody was there. John looked around the room in a panic. Sherlock came in a moment later. Where was Lydecker hiding? Where was the hound?

Of course, then Sherlock told him he'd been drugged, and started dissecting some sugar.


	9. Press

John scratched at the back of his neck when he was nervous about the Press, Sherlock had noticed. It was an unconscious desire to hide his tattoo – his barcode – which was growing back under the scarring his university lover had left before John had gone back to war.

John's hair was extra neat today, and he was wearing his best collared shirt and tie. His back was ramrod straight as he stared out the window at the jackals milling about, cameras in hand.

"Are you ready for this?" asked John.

"Of course. Are you?"

"I'm fine."

He wasn't. He was scratching the back of his neck as he said it. Something had shaken John about this trial. John had never intended, after his escape from Manticore as a child, to be in the public eye. He had started his blog on the suggestion of his therapist, never expecting that it would be read by anyone outside his small circle of friends. Perhaps it was fear that Manticore would discover him through the media attention?

But, no. He had received assurances from Mycroft that no agent of Manticore would set foot on British soil, let alone get close enough to make contact with him. Sherlock's senses were not as sharp as those of his Transgenic blogger, but he did have the advantage in reading the signals his senses portrayed. John wasn't worried about his secret being revealed, not to Manticore.

Not to Moriarty, either. Moriarty already knew. Sherlock thought back to the last time Moriarty had come into contact with John, back at the Pool. He'd referenced John's biology, referenced the strands of _canis lupus lupus_ wrapped around _homo sapiens sapiens_. Moriarty knew what John was and what he could do, and had dismissed him as peripheral – foolishly, in Sherlock's opinion, but that was irrelevant. He would be uninterested in using this trial to attack John and even less so in attacking John's family, either the British or American branch.

"Stop trying to deduce me, Sherlock. I'm _fine._"

Sherlock heard the exasperation in John's voice. Another five seconds. Four, three, two...

"I've just... got a bad feeling, is all. I don't trust- this-" He sighed. "The trial. Moriarty is going to walk, isn't he?"

"I know," said Sherlock. "He's got his fingers in everything. He'll find some way to get off, if he doesn't just blow up the courthouse before he arrives. The interesting thing will be how he does so – and what he does next."

"Interesting is not the word I would use for it."

"Perhaps not."

"So why are we even going through with this, this farce, then?"

Sherlock lied. Sherlock couldn't tell John the truth – not because he wouldn't understand, but because he would. John knew Sherlock far too well, and he knew that the Game drove the detective in ways that nothing else ever could. But perhaps-

Perhaps he didn't yet know just how much it drove Sherlock. And Sherlock was not willing to drive John away. Not yet.

No, he couldn't tell John that he just wanted to see what Moriarty would do.


End file.
